


Grappling Lesson

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [18]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Jared’s almost as envious of his body as he is into it.The key word being almost. He’s pretty envious, but he isreallyinto it.





	Grappling Lesson

It’s not like they’re just constantly having sex, whatever his parents probably think.

The other day they went to Bryce’s place after camp and _actually watched a movie_ , and Jared honestly didn’t mind it, slumping down on the couch so Bryce could tuck an arm around his shoulder, Bryce’s fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve, the shell of his ear, the short hairs on the back of his neck, like he couldn’t not touch him, which made Jared feel — something stupid. He doesn’t know how to explain it. It was a good feeling, though. Warm.

So like Jared said: didn’t mind it. In an ideal world they would have exchanged handies after, but time was working against them there, and even though his parents haven’t said much about Bryce since the breakfast from hell and his mom basically siccing Erin on him, there’s this tension every time he gets home after them, like they want to ask him where he was but don’t actually want the answer. 

He’s pretty sure his parents would be relieved if they did ask — and if Jared answered, which he probably wouldn’t. Like, ‘oh yeah, I ate my weight in Chinese food and then went into a food coma while he played video games’ is pretty innocent, right? Definitely better than whatever they think he’s doing.

Except today. Because today they are — maybe having sex.

*

Jared fucking loves Bryce’s bed. Since Bryce’s first stroke of genius (hah, stroke, nice one Jared), they’ve kept things in the boudoir, as it were. It’s been kind of rushed every time, like, clothes on, dicks out, and Jared doesn’t know if that’s him needing to be home by dinner or Bryce still being self-conscious or the fact that almost the second they start kissing he has the uncontrollable urge to get his hand on Bryce’s dick. It’s practically hit the point of Pavlovian.

Today, though, the day after camp let out, they’ve got plenty of time, a sunny stretch of afternoon and evening before Jared has to be home for curfew. He’s got late curfew going forward, humming all the way into fall, practically, when training camp and school and the preseason will trip over each other’s heels. Usually he’d be impatient, waiting for that, for the year to truly start, summer an irritating stretch of boring days filled with workouts, limited ice time when he can get it, but right now? 

Right now he’s pressing his mouth to where Bryce’s pulse is speeding up, the rough scratch of stubble under his lips, fingers inching under his shirt, and summer sounds pretty fucking good to him.

“Take this off,” Jared says, tugging at the hem of Bryce’s shirt, because he wants to _see_.

Bryce pulls away, a short sharp loss before he pulls his shirt over his head, tugs at Jared’s in an unspoken request Jared has zero issues obeying. 

“Can we—” Jared says, and there are so many ways he could finish that question, so many fucking things he wants to do, that he doesn’t know how to finish it, cuts himself off against Bryce’s mouth, hands restlessly exploring the newly revealed skin, the hot breadth of his back, smooth except for a scar just above his waistband Jared would bet is hockey related, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, taut muscle as Bryce sucks in a breath.

“Can we—” Jared tries again against Bryce’s mouth, tugging at the waistband of Bryce’s shorts, and when Bryce skins them off along with his boxer briefs, Jared pulls back so he can take him in.

It’s the first time Jared’s seen Bryce fully naked, rather than just slices of skin — the skin of his stomach, as tan as he is everywhere else, as his shirt rode up, his shorts down mid-thigh — but they have time, so much of it, and a disapproving ‘be safe’ text when Jared said he wouldn’t be home until curfew isn’t even close to enough to kill Jared’s need to get his hands on Bryce in every way he can.

Bryce’s body makes Jared feel kind of self-conscious about his own in comparison. It was one thing when it was basically just dicks out, because Bryce wins that, but not by a ton or anything, but the size difference is more noticeable here. Jared’s not scrawny by any means, especially since he’s expected to put on weight in the next few years, but he’s very much reminded that more than one scout commented that he was probably at least fifteen to twenty pounds of muscle away from what he’d need for his frame in the NHL, and Bryce has those twenty pounds and more. He’s not bulky, but he’s big; broad shoulders, muscled biceps, thick fucking _thighs_. Jared’s almost as envious of his body as he is into it.

The key word being almost. He’s pretty envious, but he is _really_ into it.

“Um,” Bryce says. “Are you gonna—”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Jared blurts out.

For someone who clearly fucking _knows_ he’s hot, Bryce gets weirdly bashful looking. “You too,” he says, which Jared guesses is the thing he has to say — except shut up, that part of Jared, no fucking way would Bryce take a risk and go for a guy for the first time if he’s not even into him. Self-deprecation, meet logic, you lose.

“Can you—” Bryce says, then, “I feel weird being the only one naked,” which again, _why_ , has he _seen_ himself, but like, again, not a problem.

Sex has been getting better and better — and it started off great — but it’s officially the best like this, because Jared gets to look his fill with the overhead lights off but sun filtering through the window, gets to see the tension of his thighs, the way the muscles of his abs flex when Jared thumbs over the head of his dick, the movement of the tendons in his forearm when he gets a hand on Jared in return. It’s like the most gorgeous anatomy lesson possible, and Jared plans to be the most dutiful scholar of all time. He wants to put his hands on everything he sees. He wants to put his _mouth_ on everything he sees.

After, during the part that they’d usually be tugging their underwear back up, they lie side by side, not even bothering to get under the light sheet, and the self-consciousness and urge to compare himself to Bryce is gone, Jared so comfortable, cradled by a probably stupid expensive mattress, Bryce’s thigh against his, hair shining in the filtered sunlight, cheeks a little pink, mouth wet and red. And damn, you’d think Jared hadn’t just gotten off, the way he drinks it in.

“You always struck me as the kind of guy who’d wax or something,” Jared says, running his hand over the hair on his chest, a shade darker than the gold on his head. He also struck Jared as the kind of guy who’d have perfectly groomed pubes, and that one wasn’t wrong, so he’s a little surprised he was wrong about this. Not complaining, like, at all, just surprised.

“Waxing hurts like a bitch,” Bryce says.

“Of course you know that,” Jared says.

“Well I,” Bryce says, then, “Ow!” as Jared tugs lightly at his chest hair.

“Oh come on,” Jared says. “You baby.”

“Stop!” Bryce whines when Jared does it again, batting at Jared’s hand and then rolling protectively onto his stomach.

“Hey, what’s that?” Jared asks, catching a flash of black on his shoulder. Well, after he checks out his ass, which is impossible not to devote his full attention to. It’s uh. It’s a good ass. Jared’s never considered himself an ass man? But he…has changed his mind.

“Huh?” Bryce asks, “Oh, my tattoo?”

Jared definitely didn’t expect Bryce to have a tattoo, especially since he just said _waxing_ hurt like a bitch. Needles have to be a whole other level, and Jared isn’t just saying that because needles are among his top five least favourite things in the entire world.

Jared leans in. It’s messy looking like a scribble, hard to read, but it resolves itself into “B. Marcus”, which — Jesus, how is this Jared’s boyfriend.

“I can’t believe you have a tattoo of your own fucking name,” Jared says, tracing his fingers over the spidery black of the M. “You know if you’re worried about forgetting your name it’s not going to help you, since you can’t even see it.” 

Maybe it’d help him avoid being a John Doe, though Jared’s pretty sure there isn’t a single hockey player without pretty significant dental records, so it’s not exactly necessary anyway.

 _How_ is this Jared’s boyfriend?

“My dad’s name, not mine,” Bryce mumbles into his arm, “It’s in his handwriting, so I got it to save it, I guess.”

Jared can’t — well, Jared feels shitty for mocking it now. “What’s the B for? Not Bryce, I guess?”

“Ben,” Bryce says. 

Jared leans down, presses his lips against that spindly M. He expected it to feel different somehow, maybe coarser, or raised like a scar, but it just feels like skin.

“That’s kind of sweet,” he says quietly against Bryce’s back, because saying it unmuffled would be embarrassing or something. “Why your back?”

“What do you mean?” Bryce asks.

“Like, wouldn’t you want to see it?” Jared asks.

“Okay, promise not to laugh?” Bryce asks.

“I can’t promise that,” Jared says, because that’s just setting him up for failure. “But I can promise whatever I make up in my head is going to be way more embarrassing than whatever the actual reason is.”

“Okay so, like, I really wanted it,” Bryce says. “But I kind of don’t like needles? And I was afraid if I could see it I’d pussy out and like, disappoint my mom and stuff, because she was like — she doesn’t really like tattoos but she was happy I was doing it, like she cried when I told her, and asked if she could come, so. I’m used to pain, so I figured as long as I didn’t have to see the tattoo gun I’d be good.”

“Needles suck,” Jared says. “You know you could have just shut your eyes, right?”

“I would’ve looked,” Bryce says. “Plus the tattoo dude probably would have laughed at me if I did. So. My back.”

“How old were you when he died?” Jared asks.

“Four,” Bryce says. “I don’t really remember him much, but. Like, I remember him being gone, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “I’m sorry.”

“I really can’t—” Bryce says. “I dunno. It’s more my mom, you know? Like, it’s just been us, and I was probably not, like, the easiest kid.”

“You don’t say,” Jared says, and Bryce shifts up enough to push his shoulder.

Jared pushes his shoulder back, and it devolves to a tussle quickly enough, Jared laughing as Bryce twists, all quick flex of muscle, and grapples him onto his back, the laughter dying as the competitive part of Jared kicks in, tries to get out from under him, knees coming up around his hips, attempting to flip them with absolutely zero success.

Jared’s play fought with teammates before — it tends to be a good way to get rid of excess energy and aggression when you’re all wound up — but he can’t say he’s ever done it naked, and it turns out that’s kind of distracting, because Bryce pins him way too easily. Like, it’s not that Jared was _trying_ exactly, but he wasn’t _not_ trying either, and he doesn’t know whether to be annoyed at how quickly Bryce has him prone, well and truly stuck under the press of his weight, Bryce’s hands curled loosely around his wrists. He thinks he’s annoyed? Except honestly it feels a lot more like turned on. He knows the feeling well. He’s experienced it a lot lately.

Jared’s still got one thing left in his arsenal though, and he lunges up as much as the slack Bryce has left around his wrists allows him, catching his mouth, a clash that’s more teeth than anything. Bryce’s hands tighten, almost painful, hips pressing forward, and it goes from an attempt to get back out on top to the fine French art of frottage pretty damn fast, because rubbing off against Bryce seems like a much better use of his energy than wrestling’s ever been.

“Another round?” Jared asks, and Bryce laughs breathlessly and kisses him again, tugging at Jared’s thigh, and Jared gets the picture quickly enough, wrapping his leg around Bryce’s waist.

And okay, what no one ever tells you about frottage is that it is maybe hotter in theory than in practice. It’s too dry, and the friction goes from too sharp from the start to almost painful, and a tiny part of Jared is like ‘are we really risking friction burn for an orgasm?’ The rest of Jared is emphatically answering yes, though. Priorities.

Bryce comes first, hot against his stomach, and Jared feels smug for all of a second before Bryce is getting a hand around him, sticky slick — and oh fuck, that’s his fucking come, and _that_ is as hot in practice as it is in theory — and then Jared isn’t feeling anything but fucking wired, breathing open mouthed and uneven against Bryce’s throat as Bryce ruthlessly strips him, strokes him through it as he adds to the mess.

“I’m disgusting,” Jared says, after Bryce has rolled off him and he’s gotten his breath back, because fuck, there is come everywhere. He thinks he has some on his _throat_. “There isn’t enough Kleenex in the world.”

“I can get you a wash cloth?” Bryce says.

Jared actually kind of likes it, but it’d sound bad to say it out loud — ‘nah man, I like being covered in come’, yeah no, not leaving his mouth, He’ll probably start liking it a lot less once it starts to dry anyway, so he lets Bryce up, watches that perfect fucking ass head to the bathroom. He returns with a wet wash cloth, thankfully warm, hovers by the bed while Jared wipes himself off. Seriously, his _throat_?

“C’mere,” Jared says, as he puts the cloth on the bedside table, because Bryce hovering over him is a little unnerving. Bryce slides onto the bed beside him, and rolls onto his side, looking at Jared with this clear eyed, steady gaze that makes Jared feel self-conscious.

“Do I have something on my face?” Jared asks. “Did you come _that_ hard?”

Bryce snorts. “Yeah,” he says, “A little something—” He presses his thumb to Jared’s neck, which throbs in response, and Jared has a feeling he’s going to need to wear high collared shirts around the house for the next while. That won’t be suspicious at all. It’s not like it’s summer or anything. 

“Dammit Marcus,” Jared says. “My parents are gonna kill me.”

“Sorry,” Bryce says. “I got kind of—”

“Yeah,” Jared says. Not that he minded at the time. “I think I’ve got a turtleneck somewhere. Maybe they’ll think it’s a fashion statement?”

“Maybe,” Bryce says, totally earnest sounding, and leans forward to kiss him just as Jared is about to question whether he actually believes that, because turtlenecks as a fashion statement? _Turtlenecks_?

Jared forgets to say it when Bryce pulls back, though, forehead pressed against Jared’s, giving him that clear eyed look from so close up Jared can’t look anywhere else.

“God, you’re just—” Bryce says.

“Just?” Jared prompts when he doesn’t continue.

“I like you so fucking much,” Bryce says. “Like I—”

Jared waits for him to finish, but when he doesn’t, says, “Ditto, so.”

“Cool,” Bryce says, mouth turning up a little at the corner. Jared hasn’t decided which of Bryce’s smiles he likes more, the wide-mouthed grin or this, a small one that makes him look almost shy.

“Cool,” Jared says, rubs his thumb over the inside of Bryce’s wrist, because it was the closest to his hand and he just — he wants to touch him. Constantly. Not even for sex (though definitely for sex), just — he feels better when he’s touching him. Bryce’s lips brush his forehead, and Jared swallows.

“You want to grab some dinner?” Bryce asks.

“Like, go out and grab?” Jared asks.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“Like we’d have to put clothes on?” Jared asks.

Bryce’s quiet. “Wanna order some pizza?” he says. “There’s this place nearby my nutritionist doesn’t get mad at me about. Or there’s—”

“Pizza and naked sounds good,” Jared interrupts.

They do actually end up getting somewhat dressed, since Bryce has to actually answer the door, but while pizza half naked is probably only half as good, that’s still pretty fucking awesome, and if there’s been a day this good before, Jared can’t remember it.


End file.
